


handcuffs

by goldengalaxies



Category: Suits (US TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, College, M/M, Police, Soulmate-Identifying Marks, Soulmates, au where rachel and mike go to college together, but the weed scene still happens, ily mike but u gotta get ur shit togther, ish, it’s a redo of the interview scene in an au with soulmate tats and mike still in college, this is not actually set in a college setting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-04
Updated: 2019-11-04
Packaged: 2021-01-22 13:33:41
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,588
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21302903
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/goldengalaxies/pseuds/goldengalaxies
Summary: “Do not speak to him under any circumstances, you understand me?”“You do realise I’m handcuffed to a table, right?”(first words soulmate au in which rachel and mike go to college together and even though everything’s different, mike and harvey end up the same)
Relationships: Donna Paulsen/Rachel Zane, Mike Ross & Rachel Zane, Mike Ross/Harvey Specter, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 40
Kudos: 540





	handcuffs

**Author's Note:**

> hey everyone! this is my first fic in the suits fandom so i hope u all enjoy! <3

Mike’s always known that his soulmate is going to be a very demanding woman by the words _‘Do not speak to him under any circumstances, you understand me?’_ written over his heart. There are other clues about her personality there- like the elegant cursive that Mike could never hope to copy, showing that she’s probably pretty well off. Trevor always joked that he was going to end up as some rich lady’s stay-at-home-husband with such a forceful first meeting.

In return, Mike mocked his friend’s _‘Fuck you very much!’_ written in all caps over Trevor’s left forearm.

It amused Mike endlessly to come up with scenarios for how his friend will meet his soulmate- Grammy usually remarked that it showed how polite and gentlemanly Trevor is (i.e: not at all), but, then again, she’d always disapproved of Trevor, so Mike didn’t take much notice of it.

With an exception to Trevor’s ribbing, Mike actually hadn’t taken much time in his life to think about how he would meet his soulmate. With words like his, people tend to focus on what type of person she was going to be, rather than about how he’s going to meet her. It’s too vague a sentence to give any real clues about how he’s going to meet his soulmate.

It’s not until he meets Rachel Zane for the first time, at the freshman orientation of Columbia Law, that he pauses for a split second and wonders if she’s the _‘one’_.

She seems ballsy enough to say his words, and she’s his type- gorgeous, smart and just the right side of cocky- but his hope is quickly squashed when she doesn’t. Instead, the first thing she says to him is; _“Good, you’ve hit on me. We can get it out of the way that I am not interested.”_ which proves his assumptions to be partly correct, she _is_ ballsy, but she’s not his soulmate.

The latter of which he later realises he’s immensely grateful for- they’re much better off friends. Besides, having those words and being labelled as a douche for eternity from birth, _and_ being rejected all in the same sentence? Thanks, but Mike would rather pass on that.

He, instead, treasures his own (admittedly frustratingly vague) words and wishes that his soulmate would just hurry up and find him.

* * *

His frustration gets even worse when Rachel finally meets her soulmate, Donna, who sounds like a force of nature from what Rachel tells him- he never actually meets Donna, with the final year coming fast he’s too busy working two jobs and studying to meet Rachel anymore- but the stories are enough to keep him in awe of her. She’s older than Rachel by about six years and already works at a law firm as a secretary for a closer at Pearson Hardman, all of which he learns from a harried, breathless phone call that he gets from Rachel while she stands the middle of a coffee shop bathroom asking for advice on how to ‘woo’ an older woman. Mike scoffs and tells her to call someone else- he’s only ever dated a few girls before. She, as usual, moans at him for being so utterly useless and hangs up the phone.

He only ever talks to Rachel over the phone now; a fact he feels constantly guilty over- but he doesn’t have time to see anyone but his boss, Trevor and the hellish Tort Law textbook that keeps him up until the early hours of the morning.

He’s too ashamed to tell Rachel that he’s struggling and he’s too proud to ask for her help. She might not be like some of the rich assholes that sneer at his worn clothes and six-year old bike, but she still comes from money. She’d probably smack him for being such a stubborn dumb-ass and then bitch him out about how she doesn’t use her parents money, but it’s impossible for her to understand what it’s like without the fail-safe of having wealthy parents as a back up when you need it. He knows that it’s not her fault she can’t understand, but he also doesn’t bother telling her about how his crushing student debt is following him around like a shark that’s about to bite him in the ass.

Which, when the nurse tells him to come up with twenty-five thousand dollars within the week, he goes to Trevor, who suggests the thing he’s been trying to avoid all along.

* * *

Mike pulls at his collar irritably, trying to cool himself down. His heart races in his chest without his permission and he rubs his palm over the offending area, calming slightly as his fingers brush over his soulmates tattoo.

The momentary calm turns suddenly sour as he thinks of his mate. What would she think of him for doing this? Would they be upset? Understanding? Or worse, what if his soulmate _approved_ of it? What if this choice lead him down a path he didn’t want? Could she be involved in this kind of life? He hoped not. He didn’t want to live a life of crime- he was studying to be a lawyer for fucks sake.

_This is only a one time deal_, he tells himself as he takes a deep breath and walks out of the elevator. He keeps his eyes up as he makes his way down the ornately decorated hallway- anything else in a hotel like this would bring more attention to him than he wanted. He threw a half-smile to an older woman he passed, at the same time scanning each door for the number that would earn him $25,000.

It was like one of those game shows- _and under door number 4507 is $25,000 dollars! Isn’t that great?_

There was also a drug dealer and possibly the cops waiting for him on the other side of that door, but still, you work with what you’ve got. However, obviously, what he had fucking sucked.

He was literally a walking example of the people he learns about in his Crim Law lectures- _if the police find Mike carrying a briefcase with 5,375 grams of cannabis (a class B drug) inside, what would be a) his charge, b) his penalty and c) his level of i’m-so-fucking-fucked? Please explain your answers._

He sighs, before giving himself one last moment to turn back before turning around the corner towards room 4002.

* * *

Before he knows what’s happening he’s sprinting down the hallway, crashing into people left and right. The sounds of thudding footsteps behind him spur him on and he zigzags in and out of the crowded lobby, trying to stay hidden in the sea of businessmen and families.

It’s a spot of luck that he spies the _‘Harvard Law Interview’_ sign that he spotted earlier, and follows the directions written below to duck into another hallway. A handful of men all around his age stare at him as he runs into the middle of the room, still panting from his police chase through the hotel.

“Rick Sorkin?” A woman’s voice makes his head whip around as he turns to move towards her, stumbling slightly as he struggles to regain his breath.

Their eyes meet and she gazes at him with a supremely unimpressed look on her face that Mike doesn’t know what he’s done to deserve. “Rick Sorkin?”

“Huh?” Mike blurts, coughing distractedly.

“Excuse me, Mr Sorkin, you are five minutes late. Is there a reason why I should let you in?”

Mike’s brows furrow in confusion- what is she talking about? His eyes flicker back to the hallway he came from, before realising no ones following him. He sighs a small breath of relief before turning his gaze back to her. “Look, I’m just trying to ditch the cops, I don’t really care if you let me in or not.”

She stares at him for a moment, her face a mixture of shock and awe, before doing the strangest thing. She turns to the open door to her left and _winks_.

Mike doesn’t quite understand what he’s gotten himself into, but he can’t bring himself to care. Right now he’s just trying to focus on not immediately going over to Trevor’s place and fucking _killing him_ for almost getting him caught by the cops.

“Mr Spector will be right with you.” The redhead says suddenly as she turns back to him.

“What?”

She ignores his confusion easily. “Can I get you anything? A coffee or a bottle of water?”

“_What?_” Mike repeats, his brows furrowing. “No- um, no thanks, I’m good.”

“Okay.” She smiles calmly and takes her seat, tapping away at her laptop for a moment before waving a hand towards the open door. “You can go in now.”

Mike steals one last glance at the near-empty hallway he’d run in from, and decides, _fuck it_. It’s either this or going back out there to face the cops with a briefcase full of pot.

He gives the woman behind the desk an empty smile, still not really understanding what the fucks going on. He walks into the large room to see a sharply dressed man looking at him from behind the desk. The man gives him an appraisal, looking him up and down quickly in a way that makes Mike’s skin tingle.

He’s in the process of pulling out the chair to sit down when he hears the shouting of voices outside. The man- Mr Spectre- opens his mouth to say something but is immediately interrupted by a knock at the door, which immediately opens to reveal the cops Mike had just been running from. He shoots up to his feet, standing quickly- too quickly in fact, as the force jars his tight grip on the briefcase and knocks the latch, which flips open, spilling the whole 5,375 grams onto the floor.

It’s at this point that Mike regrets ever meeting Trevor.

* * *

“Look,” The cop’s eyes slide down to papers on the table as he spreads numerous files out in front of him. “Mr Ross- Mike- can I call you Mike?”

“Sure.” Mike shrugs, playing at nonchalance. It doesn’t matter to him what this cop calls him- the good cop attempt would be just as obvious if he called him ‘Mr Ross’.

“Okay, Mike, help me out here.” The officer leans back, an arm thrown back over the back of the chair in an almost overly casual pose. It would be pretty convincing, except the coffee cup hasn’t gone untouched since the cop set a foot through the door. He continues to stare as the man fiddles his thumb over the side of the lid, too jittery to be described as a simple habit. It all points to the signs of nervousness, or that’s what Mike read in _The Nonverbal Advantage: Secrets and Science of Body Language at Work_. It’s probably the poor guy’s first proper interrogation.

“Help you?” Mike lets out a soft snort that’s barely audible. “Right, and how am I supposed to do that?”

The man blows out a slightly impatient breath. “Tell us the name of your dealer.”

Mike crosses his arms but he can’t help the way his heart skips a beat. He knows he’s in trouble but there’s few options left for him to take. He can’t give up Trevor- for all Trevor’s done to him, he just _can’t_\- and unfortunately for him, Mike can’t name Trevor’s supplier either, because he- possibly quite stupidly- picked up that briefcase and walked out the door without _knowing anything_.

The silence between them stretches as Mike gives no sign of replying. All of the years of studying law and all he can think to do is _shut the hell up_ until someone else comes to save the day, even though he figures that that’s not really an option here. He’s an almost failing college student, who, instead of getting his life together, chooses to spend his days procrastinating and/or smoking pot (and, now, _possessing with intent to distribute under the Misuse of Drugs Act 1971 and the Psychoactive Substances Act 2016_). All of which continuing whilst he attempts to pay for his grandma’s nursing home. As of right now he can’t afford to buy a fully functioning bike, let alone a decent attorney.

He resits the urge to bang his head against the table. Why the fuck did he let Trevor talk him into this? And, god, how is he going to explain this to Rachel? To Grammy? She’s going to be so disappointed in him.

The door opens with a click and his eyes snap up. He can feel his hardly suppressed anxiety skyrocket through the throb of his pulse.

A man stands in the door, and Mike’s quick scan reveals three things. One, the dude is _rich_. From the $5000 suit, to the even more expensive Rolex that adorns his wrist, the man could probably pay for grammy’s care home bills thrice over and not even notice it leaving his bank account. Two, he’s vaguely familiar, which is odd because last time he checked, he had an eidetic memory- and Mike’s pretty sure it wouldn’t start to fail him by forgetting someone who looked like _that_. Which brought him to point number three, this man was positively drop-dead, ‘I-model-for-Tom-Ford’, _gorgeous_.

It’s only when the man opens his mouth to speak that Mike’s brain brings him back up to speed, which is being unusually slow right now (_sue him_, it’s been a stressful afternoon to say the least, he’s earned the right to be a little distracted). It’s the lawyer- Mr Spector- that had been present to see his briefcase fall apart to reveal 5,375 grams of weed just five seconds after the cops had run in.

God, he’s well and truly fucked if they’ve already got their witnesses lined up.

Instead of speaking to the cop, the man turns to him. “Do not speak to him under any circumstances, you understand me?”

Which brings his brain back to being slow, as it grinds to an unexpected halt at the words that tumble out of the man’s mouth without thought. Mike’s lips part as his jaw hangs slightly ajar, the reaction to his _soulmate_ unconscious.

His soulmate.

The man- his soulmate is a _man_, huh; that actually explains a few things about himself that he’d never fully examined- turns to the detective. “Your time with my client is up, so if you’d like to leave, the doors right over there.” He points flippantly to the door, where it’s still ajar from his own entrance.

The cop’s nose scrunches irritably, but doesn’t bother arguing. The noise the door makes when it slams shut jars him and his eyes snap to meet his soulmates.

“Right, now that he’s out of the way, I’m going to make a call. Don’t move from here until I get back.”

It’s all happening so fast even Mike’s super-human brain is struggling to keep up. “You do realise I’m handcuffed to a table, right?” Mike blurts suddenly and then immediately winces, realising those words are actually _tattooed_ onto his soulmates body somewhere- and christ, what words to have. Mike is suddenly dreading meeting his soulmate’s parents.

The only sign the man gives is a slight clench of his jaw- which, should be fucking illegal for how turned on it makes Mike feel.

“So.” The man speaks, finally, after what feels like hours. “You’re the reason my parents thought I was going to end up in jail.”


End file.
